I did the equivalent of shouting “fire” in a crowded theater.
The guys were appropriately punished by being kicked off the team, but I wasn’t and now I have to live with what they did to you, knowing there’re no amends I can make that would be commensurate. I am truly and profoundly sorry.
Wishing you the best,
Lissy Ryder
You know what?
Catharsis is better than carbs.
I send similar e-mails/Facebook messages to Meredith, Kimmy, April, Steve, Jeremy, and even Tammy. I tell Meredith how much I regret not respecting her unique taste and honed palate. I explain to Kimmy that my ends didn’t justify my means. April is briefed on exactly why my insensitivity was so out of line, and I compliment Jeremy for being unapologetically smart, even when people like me tried to drag him down. I tell Tammy how contrite I am for making her big day all about me. As for Steve, I praise him for the strength of his convictions. I tell him how much I admire his not compromising because of what some arbitrary asshole like me deemed cool, especially when I wasn’t even honest about my taste. How dared I mock him for digging Gershwin over Pearl Jam?
In each note, I’m forthcoming about my culpability. I don’t ask for forgiveness, because I don’t deserve it. Even though my bad deeds helped spur their success, I don’t exactly merit a trophy for being my unpleasant self from the get-go.
(By the way? Ten bucks every single e-mail recipient thinks I’m in AA now, working through the steps.)
The next letters are the ones that especially count.
To Brooks I write:
Dear Brooks,
Despite my best efforts, I can’t change the past, and if I told you I tried, you’d believe I was crazy.
My behavior at the reunion was inappropriate and my performance in high school was unconscionable. I realize I’m in no position to ask you for a favor, but if I were, I’d implore you to keep recounting tales of my abhorrent behavior. Your words will have an impact on the younger generation and they’ll be less likely to abuse their peers like I abused you.
I wish you nothing but the best, as that’s what you’ve always deserved.
Lissy Ryder
Before I contact Duke, I take a quick peek at his Facebook page, but it’s locked down, at least to me. I could easily hack into his account if I wanted to see it—he’s been using the password “lionpride” now for years. However, his profile photo tells me everything I need to know; it’s a shot of him and Elyse at the reunion. He’s busting some goofy boy-band dance move, and she has such a smitten expression on her face that I feel like I’m intruding on a private moment just looking at it.
Dear Martin,
I’ve finally come to realize that you’ve always deserved better. I’m sorry it took me so long. I promise you won’t hear from my attorney again, save to agree to all your requests.
I wish you and Elyse every happiness.
All the best,
Lissy
I struggle for the right words to say to Amy Childs for a long time. I decide simplicity is best.
Amy,
I’ve blown any chance to apologize to you, so I won’t insult you by trying. Instead, let me say this—living well is the best revenge, so I hope that you’re able to exact that revenge every single day.
Namaste,
Lissy Ryder
Finally, it’s time to write the one letter that counts more than any of them.
Dear Nicole,
Thirty years ago I tried to buy your affection with Good Humor bars. That was probably my last selfless act, and even then I might doubt my motives. Since that time, I’ve never lived up to the promise of what I should be as a friend.
I don’t deserve to have someone as kind and pure and good as you in my life, but if you’d consider giving me another shot, I promise to show you everything I’ve learned in the last month about truly—and for the first time—putting someone else’s needs above my own.
Please allow me to be your second.
Liss
Before I can even finish my next Google search, I receive a note back from Nicole.
Liss,
I’m sorry. I just can’t.
Nic
Somehow, this feels even worse than having to break Brian’s heart.
The old Lissy would have gone to her house bearing gifts and demanding that she allow me back into her life. I wouldn’t take no for an answer. I’d do my usual bulldozing act where no one else’s feelings or wants took precedence over mine. But at this point I realize that I love Nicole enough to respect her wishes.
If and when she ever comes around, I’ll be waiting for her.
I’m so thrown by Nicole’s note that I almost forget what I’d been doing, which was searching for current news on Brian. The last time I pulled up only his professional credentials, but now I’m very interested in his personal life.
I scroll through pages and pages of press releases and company profiles. Looks like his IPO is progressing, which is wonderful for him, but how is he outside of work? Who are his friends? What does he do to relax? Is he even able to have any fun, given the intensity of what’s about to happen professionally?
I still can’t find any obvious telling information about him, save for a sterile bio on NoCoup.com’s Web site, where it states that he “likes music.” What kind of music? Good music or Kelly Clarkson music?
I can’t find a thing about him on Facebook, possibly because there are too damn many Brian Murphys in the United States. However, I do find a Twitter feed titled NoCoupComPrez, so I click over there.
I start at the bottom and work my way up so I can read his story chronologically. His early messages are pretty generic, regarding whatever the daily offer is, whether it’s 50 percent off a night at the Brew & View in Lakeview or a discount blowout at the Ruby Room in Wicker Park. Everything seems so professional that I’m convinced he’s using an outside publicist. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.)
Yet what catches my attention is the spate of replies he’s been sending out over the past few weeks.
@AddyMcAdams—Thanks! So happy!
@RolfGustavson—Agreed! Very exciting times, my friend.
Aw, he has a friend. It’s not like he never had them before, but that makes me happy to know there’s someone out there pulling for him.
@Yello_submachine—I can’t believe it either. Finally, right?
@iamcoltonbolton—Twelve years, but who’s counting?
Is that how long he’s been trying to take this thing public? That makes total sense. That’d put his start date right around the dot-com crash. He probably had a devil of a time trying to round up venture capital back then. I’m so proud that he finally got it together. He deserves this. He deserves to be happy.
@cest-parfait-okay—You deserve to be happy!
See? C’est Parfait Okay feels me.
@DokkenStillRocken—We wish you could have made it, too.
@red-man-walking—Mazel back at you! Thanks so much for your generous gift—note and stories to follow!
Um . . . made it to what? Gift for what?
@FIJIGardenOasis—Oh, we’ll be back, bank on it.
We?
And what’s the Fiji Garden Oasis? I open another window and input that search criteria.
I’m taken to a page that looks like someone pulled it right out of a screen saver. I’m talking little huts with thatched roofs underneath the bluest sky I’ve ever seen. Although the cabins appear primitive at first, each open-air unit comes with a minikitchen and top-of-the-line Grohe bathroom fittings. The private bungalows are built out on docks that jut over crystal-clear blue water and they all have small, private pools.
“The Fiji Garden Oasis Resort offers five-star lodging and amenities on one of Fiji’s most pristine beaches.”
A slide show of stunning scenery begins to cycle as a narrator begins his pitch.
“Built on the site of a former pineapple plantation . . .”
But I’m
not really listening, because I’m trying really hard to convince myself that this was the site of a corporate retreat. Because why else would Brian go to a vacation in paradise?
I tab back to Twitter.
@TheNewMrsMurphy—I think you were worth the wait, too.
No. No, no.
That’s not from his wife.
That’s from his sister-in-law.
Or his mom. Or his aunt. Because Brian did not just get married.
Karma can’t possibly be that much of a bitch.
I click over to the New Mrs. Murphy’s feed and I find the link to her Facebook page.
Unless someone is very skilled at Photoshop, it would appear that Brian and Joy were married on the weekend of our twentieth class reunion. I guess that’s why he couldn’t come.
Joy.
Her name is Joy.
I do a search on the Chicago Tribune Web site and I find the following announcement:
Grant/Murphy
Warren and Beatrice Grant, of Western Springs, IL, are happy to announce the marriage of their daughter, Joy Marie, of Chicago, IL, to Brian John Murphy, also of Chicago, IL.
Mr. Murphy’s parents are William and Priscilla Murphy, of La Grange, IL. The wedding took place on October 20, 2012, at the Bond Chapel, University of Chicago, with Deacon Rolf Gustavson officiating. Dinner and dancing followed at the Metropolitan Club.
Miss Grant is a 1995 graduate of Lyons Township High School, La Grange, IL, and University of Illinois, Champaign-Urbana, IL, where she obtained her bachelor of science and master’s in computer science. She is currently employed at Google in Chicago, IL.
Mr. Murphy is a 1992 graduate of Lyons Township High School. He also obtained a bachelor of science degree in computer science from University of Illinois, and a master’s in computer science at University of Chicago, Chicago, IL. He is currently employed as president and CEO of I Don’t Have Time for CouponTM in Chicago, IL.
The couple honeymooned in Fiji following the wedding.
I feel very detached as I toggle back to her Facebook page. I’m not sure the magnitude of this has hit me yet. Until it does, I plan to glean every tidbit I can about her life, starting with her photographs.
First, it has to be said that she’s cute. I’m not being critical when I say she’s not beautiful (okay, maybe a little), but she is cute in a girl-next-door kind of way. She has a pointy chin and round blue eyes and a bunch of corkscrew curls. She reminds me of Meg Ryan before All the Unpleasantness. She’s not particularly tall or thin but her wedding gown fits impeccably.
I wonder if her mom didn’t let her eat for a month before the ceremony.
Looks like she owns a cocker spaniel named Cerberus. Really? Like the hound from hell? She’s funny, too?
Here’s a photo of her at LT with the caption, Scene of the crime! Further investigation reveals that she and Brian met while working a computer science booth at Career Day shortly after she finished grad school.
Hey, how about a volunteer outing with her little sister, LaTonya?
Damn it, Joy, I’m having a very hard time finding reasons to dislike you.
Of course she dressed as Princess Leia for Halloween last year. At least she’s in the white robe and not the stupid gold bikini.
And here’s the happy couple at the Guns N’ Roses show at the Allstate Arena in 2011. She’s throwing the horns in the photo.
This really happened.
Brian’s with her. And she’s exactly like him.
Game over.
I lose.
I can barely even begin to feel sorry for myself when the house phone rings. Who calls a landline? I’m in no mood for a conversation, so I ignore it. But it continues to ring, so I finally pick up on its millionth ring.
“What?”
I don’t say this nicely, either.
I’m having a crisis, okay? I think I’m allowed to be curt.
“Hello? Who is this?” The static on the other end of the line is so intense I can barely hear anything.
Right before I’m about to hang up, I hear my mother’s voice. “Lissy, come to Methodist General Hospital right now. There’s been an accident.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Empty
“This is all my fault.”
My mother has aged forty years in the course of three days. Sitting huddled on one of the unyielding chairs in the ICU waiting room, she’s fragile in a way I’ve never seen before. The shadows below her eyes are deep and dark, and her hair is matted and lank, as she’s yet to leave the hospital.
After all the time travel and alternate realities I experienced in the last month, being here is the most surreal experience of all. We’re the only family in this artificially sterile place, with its stiff, upright chairs and silk plants. The area is almost eerily silent, save for the occasional muffled squeak of the nurses efficiently whisking past us in their rubber-soled Danskos. There’s a television in here, and when I arrived this morning The Price is Right was playing. Hearing the audience cheer and Drew Carey cackle seemed almost obscene, so I yanked the cord. No one’s been by to plug it back in. So we’re waiting in the quiet until eleven a.m., when we’re permitted in to see Daddy.
“Mamma, this is not your fault,” I try to reassure her, holding on to her hand.
And yet I’m not entirely sure that’s the truth.
From what I’ve pieced together from eyewitness accounts, the police, and my mother’s own words, my parents were on I-55 on their way back from brunch with friends in Burr Ridge. They were arguing about the possibility of retirement and suddenly my father began to experience severe chest pains. Yet he wasn’t having a heart attack so much as terrible indigestion from too many horseradish-covered oysters from the raw bar.
However, when he took his hands off the wheel for a moment, my mother freaked out, grabbed it herself, completely overcorrected, and clipped the car next to them, which caused them to veer left and plow into an embankment on the driver’s side.
The great irony here is that Daddy would be in much better shape had the incident proven to be a heart attack and had Mamma kept her hands from the wheel.
As it stands, he’s in a medically induced coma to reduce the swelling around his brain, as he hasn’t responded to other treatments. He suffered severe head trauma and he’s covered in lacerations. His left arm and collarbone were broken and his pelvis and femur were shattered when his side-curtain air bag didn’t deploy. His firm partners are already poised to take action against the car’s manufacturer, but that’s of little comfort at a time like this. If my father recovers—and that is a big “if” at this point—his road to recovery will be difficult and he’ll likely not be mobile without assistance.
My mother doesn’t have a scratch on her.
I didn’t even recognize Daddy when I saw him yesterday, with all the cuts and bruising and bandages. He’s hooked up to a dozen machines and all of them ping and beep at different times. If he were awake, he’d never be able to rest with the noise of the machines that are keeping him alive.
“Why’d I have to start after him again?” my mother asks no one in particular. “Why couldn’t I just let him be? All he wanted was to quit working so hard, maybe travel or buy a boat, and definitely spend some more time with me. Why couldn’t I have accepted that? Now that dear, sweet man has spent his whole adult life givin’ to us and what does he have in return?”
In the past forty-eight hours, my mother has fallen desperately in love with my father. Or maybe she always was and is just now figuring it out. She hasn’t eaten or slept since the accident, and she refuses to leave the hospital, even for the briefest shower or nap. Daddy would be so overwhelmed with this show of emotion. Actually, he might even doubt its veracity. “What are you angling for, Ginny?” he’d likely ask.
My mother wraps her arms around herself tightly, as though she were freezing, even though it’s warm to the point of suffocating in here. I always wondered if people wouldn’t feel a little better in hospitals
if they could just catch a breath or two of fresh air.
“Don’t make the same mistakes I’ve made, Lissy. Don’t let Duke go without a fight. Tell him how much you love him and show him every day.”
I can’t argue with her right now. This is neither the time nor the place to explain to her that Duke—I mean Martin—is head over heels for someone else. He actually called me after his parents told him about the accident and tried to come and lend his support. I urged him not to, explaining that would only complicate matters. And when he sounded relieved, I didn’t hold it against him.
“I have so many regrets,” my mother laments. “Why couldn’t I appreciate all the little moments? Why was I so obsessed with havin’ the biggest and the best of everything? We could have been happy with less. But I drove him and drove him to do more and more and more and now what? I’ll be able to wear all my diamonds to his funeral?” She begins to sob.
Here I Go Again: A Novel Page 23